


More or Less

by Grassepi



Series: Text Me, Call Me, Skype Me Later [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Kyoutani wears eyeliner, Light Angst, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Self Confidence Issues, Yahaba punched Tendou, if u want context this is a side story to a larger story of mine oops probably read that first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 11:51:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11966811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grassepi/pseuds/Grassepi
Summary: Seeing a pretty, proper boy like Yahaba get down and dirty with fisticuffs and bloody knuckles was never something Kyoutani really expected to be hot for, but then he’d never seen anything like that until he’d met Yahaba.And It’s not like Kyoutani hasn’t seen Yahaba get violent before.Only-Only that he’s familiar with the violence being againsthim.Not...Forhim.





	More or Less

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! If you're here because the summary looked cool and the tags were fun, that's super great!! And I'm so sorry to tell you that this is ultimately a side story in a larger story of mine called Text Me, Call Me, Skype Me Later, which is about 50K right now and also a groupchat fic. I'd super recommend reading that first, though now that I think about it this could also be fun to read on it's own and THEN read the groupchat fic. The groupchat fic just adds context really? Point is, Yahaba punched Tendou for saying some nasty stuff, and now Kyoutani's left to deal with the fallout of that. Without further ado, let's let the awkward teenage boys do their thing:

There’s blood on Yahaba’s knuckles. It dried unusually quickly in the harsh winter winds that always seem to follow the new year, turning brown and ugly. Kyoutani can see the dried liquid cracking and splintering along Yahaba’s skin as he furiously texts, like the overhead view of rivers cutting through a canyon, or branches leaping outward from a tree to split apart the blue of the sky. Little flecks fall off every once in awhile, disappearing into the wind. The skin underneath the brown isn’t fairing much better, split and torn and purple, so far from Yahaba’s usual tone of creamy white. He doesn't know how much of the blood is the weird dude's and how much is Yahaba's, actually. 

It’s strange to see. Feels like more of a contrast than he knows it really is. Soft, polite Yahaba, friendly and forgettable. No one would expect him to be the violent type, what with his primly combed hair and pristine record and amazing grades. Second-string volleyball club member, only good enough to play on the team properly in his final year, achieving the spot through experience and not talent. Kyoutani wouldn’t have looked twice at him in his entire high school life- hadn’t looked twice at him- until the primly combed hair had fallen out of place, the polite demeanour was shoved aside for anger and fury like the sea boiling during a wailing storm, and all of that crashing indignance was turned on Kyoutani himself. Still waters run deep, and the strongest currents are the ones beneath the surface, and all that. 

It would have been hard to forget the look in Yahaba’s eyes when he threw Kyoutani into the gym wall. So Kyoutani didn’t bother trying to forget. 

It had been pretty fucking hot, after all. 

Seeing a pretty, proper boy like Yahaba get down and dirty with fisticuffs and bloody knuckles was never something Kyoutani really expected to be hot for, but then he’d never seen anything like that until he’d met Yahaba. 

So no, it’s not like Kyoutani hasn’t seen Yahaba get violent before. It’s really not that strange an idea after all, if he thinks about it for a moment.

Only-

Only that he’s familiar with the violence being against _him_.

Not...

 _For_ him.

Tanned skin, dyed hair, eyeliner and a scary attitude to boot. No one would argue that Kyoutani’s not a delinquent. Everyone’s heard at least one story about him beating someone up, about him passing out drugs or getting in a fight. People would nod and look quite satisfied as they exchanged these stories. Kyoutani's the worst of the worst, everyone will agree. If they just ask around, they’ll find someone who was there when he broke that window, or someone who’s been threatened by him. There’s proof, definitely. He just looks so scary, right? Maybe he used to fuel that anger into volleyball, but he hasn’t played volleyball in months, so the energy must be rerouted. If he doesn’t have balls to hit, he’s gotta be using faces as a replacement. No, they're not gonna go actually ask people, because what's the point in that? They know that Kyoutani's a delinquent, they don't need any kind of proof to be afraid of him. Yep, Kyoutani’s just a stone cold killer waiting to happen. Don’t the cops have a mark on him? Doesn’t he have a record already?

Isn’t it just _awful_ that he's allowed to go to school with them all?

No one ever tries to defend him. Kyoutani doesn’t expect them to. It’s an image he cultivates carefully, lets his reputation do the talking for him. If people want to believe the worst of him, then he’ll let them. All he needs is the pounding of the ball against the court to keep going. Volleyball gets him through it.

Yet.

Yahaba had defended him, against that red-haired character. Without a moment of pause to even consider it, from what Kyoutani had seen. The hands that were usually so well tended, treated like something precious and easily broken... had fought for Kyoutani. 

_That_ was what didn’t make any sense.

He’s so used to swimming against the current of Yahaba’s waves that the idea of that furious, roaring sea turning on someone else is beyond him.

Abruptly, Yahaba stops walking, taking a deep and heaving breath through his mouth. His entire body goes limp as he breathes out, the tension dropping from his shoulders and neck, his arms falling slack to his sides. The cellphone he’d been desperately texting into is dropped into his jacket pocket. Kyoutani looks on in confusion as Yahaba entirely shuts down, flowing from a fast-paced, high-strung march to a loose sprawl on the concrete sidewalk in mere seconds. It's like watching a machine shut down, lights flickering off and parts seizing to move. No more power left to allow things to function. 

Yahaba simply breathes, his sighs clouding out from his mouth in puffs of silver mist that dissipate into the silence. Arms draped casually over knees pulled into his chest, leaning back on his backpack a little. His brown eyes are half-glazed, staring out at passing cars. Refusing to look at Kyoutani. 

No, not refusing to look at Kyoutani, but simply not looking at anything. 

Tentatively, Kyoutani crouches down where he was standing, squatting awkwardly to avoid sitting on the cold stone below him. There's still a lot of space between them- Kyoutani had been about five paces behind Yahaba- but it would be weirder to try and talk to Yahaba standing high above him. He’s not even sure the other boy is going to allow this much. Knowing Yahaba, Kyoutani’s essentially placing his neck under the guillotine and begging to get executed. 

But he wants to know why Yahaba defended him. He wants to know what was going through Yahaba’s head when he hit that guy. He wants to know if Yahaba is actually this worked up over what the ketchup-haired guy said about Kyoutani. 

He wants to know if Kyoutani matters to Yahaba even a fraction as much as Yahaba matters to him. So he bends over and welcomes the blade.

Yahaba watches Kyoutani come down to his level with big brown eyes that flash in anger, hiding swirling seas and crashing storms, and his mouth so forcefully downturned Kyoutani has a hard time believing the line of it wasn’t cut into his face. But there’s no sign of immediate violence, so Kyoutani ignores the fury sitting on Yahaba’s pretty features and glares right on back.

“The fuck are you doing?”

“I’m just sitting, Kyoutani."

He waits for more, because if Kyoutani knows anything about trying to talk to other people- an activity he usually tries to avoid at all costs- it’s that people hate silence. There's always that uncomfortable need to fill the blank space with something, words or noises or motion. There’s always the odd soul who can appreciate that quiet- Iwaizumi, for one- but Yahaba definitely isn’t one of them. 

Kyoutani glares at him a little harder with every second that he doesn’t say anything more. Yahaba glares back, his mask of calm breaking apart into pieces. Fragments composed of a crumpled nose, narrowed eyes, bared teeth and mockingly arched eyebrows.

"Is that illegal now? Are you going to point out the flaws in my sitting technique? Have I wronged you in the way I’m breathing?” Yahaba spits out. “Are you going to tell me that you could have handled it, that the fact he was insulting you was your business and not mine? Because let me make this clear, I didn’t punch Tendou Satori for you.”

Oh.

“I’ve never done anything for your sake, and no matter what Oikawa-san says, I don’t plan on doing anything for your sake. I don’t expect you to do anything for me, either,” Yahaba declares. Kyoutani wonders what the thing where Yahaba threw him into a wall and threatened him into playing better against Karasuno was then. “I’ll never understand you, and you could never understand me! Quite frankly, if I could afford to have you off the team, I’d throw you out right here and now.”

“You guys need me, though,” Kyoutani says. “You’d lose really fucking bad otherwise.”

“You think I don’t know that?!” Yahaba snaps back. “You’re the cornerstone of our offence now that Iwaizumi-san is leaving, and Oikawa’s leaving a gap there that I’m not going to be able to fill! We’re going to lose anyways, but hey, at least we have Kyoutani the wonder kid to pick up our slack and make sure we don’t fall too far behind!”

“Shut up, dumbass,” Kyoutani snarls. “We don’t need the third years to play well. We’ve never needed them. Oikawa’s fucking annoying.”

“But you can’t deny that I’m not going to be able to match up to him!” Yahaba almost looks like he’s about to cry, cheeks red from yelling and eyes glimmering with watery light. Kyoutani reels back a little. He doesn’t know what to do with this. Words aren’t his strong point. _Emotions_ aren’t his strong point. Yahaba doesn’t even notice his flinch, barreling onwards. “I don’t have the monster serve, I don’t have the flashy moves or daring escapades, I can’t lead the team like he could. I’m a second-string player, and everyone knows it. The other teams are relieved when I’m subbing in for him, because it’s easier to play against me. I’m the lesser Oikawa, lesser in looks and personality and talent. I punched that guy because he was telling me the truth, and I didn’t want to hear it! Fuck, I’m just…”

Bloody hands find their way into perfectly combed hair, mussing it up irreparably and destroying the last shard of Yahaba’s perfect student image. It’s almost hilarious to think that people would naturally assume Kyoutani’s the more hot-headed of the two of them. It’s even more hilarious to think that people look at Yahaba Shigeru and dismiss him as a more mediocre version of Oikawa Tooru.

Yahaba sniffs, almost sullen. 

“I’m just less.”

He doesn’t know how to explain Yahaba’s anger in words. It’s inspiring, terrifying, oddly comforting. It’s the sea and the storm, waves and thunder. If Oikawa is a manipulative snake hoarding away his thoughts and comments until they’re necessary to elicit the response he wants, Yahaba is pure sincerity. There’s nothing faked in his emotional reactions, nothing hidden in his setting or motives. He likes that Yahaba’s so honest about what he feels, cause Kyoutani’s not always the best at understanding other people. 

“Oikawa’s really fucking annoying,” Kyoutani repeats with more emphasis. “It’s better that you’re not like him. As long as you set the ball to me, I’ll be happy with your setting. You’re…”  
He struggles to find the words, feeling his ears start to burn as Yahaba stares at him expectantly. Fuck, he thought he’d had this response planned when he started speaking, then it went right out of his head. “You’re… Yahaba. You got me to listen to you. Oikawa’s never done that. There are things you can do that Oikawa can’t.”

“Oh, big deal. I yelled at you some. Oikawa could’ve done that if he wasn’t on the court,” Yahaba insists, looking away abruptly. His eyes are red around the edges, but no tears have been shed.

“You-” Kyoutani bites down his words, growls a little in frustration. “That’s not what that was. You didn’t just yell at me.”

“Right, I also grabbed your shirt and threw you into a wall. Go me. I really changed your life. Woohoo.”

“Shut up!” He finally can’t stop himself from yelling, though he immediately regrets it when Yahaba flinches. Taking a deep breath, Kyoutani lets himself take a moment to think through what he wants to say properly. “You did change my life. It may have been just yelling for you. It was more than that for me. I wouldn’t have listened to Oikawa in your place, and I wouldn’t have a place in the team without you there. So shut up about being... less. To me, you’re more of a captain than Oikawa.”

Yahaba doesn’t respond. Kyoutani doesn’t really care if he does. He said what he wanted to say.

“You’re hurt,” Kyoutani grunts. Yahaba doesn’t look up, head in his hands, staring at the sidewalk under him. “I don’t care if you punched him for me or yourself or whoever the fuck. It was a good punch.”

“I-” Yahaba cuts himself off, then seems to force himself to keep talking, voice strained. “I don’t actually know who I punched him for, really. I don’t remember deciding to do it. My vision just went red.”

“Your hands are shaking.”

“Oh. They are.”

Slowly, Yahaba retracts into himself, drawing in his long legs and pressing his forehead to his knees to hide his face. Kyoutani doesn’t really know what to say at this point- he never knows what to say when it matters- but his legs are starting to go numb from squatting for so long, so he lets himself fall onto the sidewalk to sit properly. Huffs out slowly into the freezing air, pretending for a moment that he’s a dragon breathing out a cloud of smoke and smog. Looks around, watching for other people, but they’re in the backroads- the less fancy side of the neighbourhood. No one’s around. No one heard them yelling.

Kyoutani didn’t know Yahaba lived in the shitty side of the prefecture. He thought he would be the only one from the team, considering the crowd of preppy rich kids that generally populate Aoba Jousai. Maybe that makes more sense than Yahaba living on the rich side, in retrospect. He’d have to learn to throw a punch somehow, even if it’s just from seeing it happen before.

It’s not a bad neighbourhood, really. The houses look respectable. There are families living here, playgrounds and parks, shops and stores. But it’s still overflow from the richer side of Aoba Jousai, which means petty thievery and teenagers doing their best to imitate a proper gang fight at the local parks every once in awhile. That’s probably where most of the rumours about Kyoutani come from, cause he’s joined in one or two. Fireworks going off somewhere nearby at night and cops showing up thinking it’s gun fire. Raccoons getting into people’s garbage and no one noticing for a day before it’s cleaned up. Not a bad neighbourhood. Just not as good as the other side of the suburbs with its small mansions and pretty gardens, which makes it seem shittier in comparison.

“I’m sorry,” Yahaba says, startling Kyoutani back into looking at him. “I was- I lashed out at you, back then, at the Karasuno match, and just now. Back then, I was so frustrated to be taken out of the match for someone so destructive, and watching you fuck up over and over was driving me insane. It didn’t give me any right to throw you around, though. And now, Tendou comes in and riles me up, says these terrible terrible things, and I knew I shouldn’t hit him because I’ll get in trouble and I don’t want to hurt him, but then he says something about you fucking up at the Karasuno match and costing us the match and I- I just lost control, because you didn’t fuck up at the Karasuno match. I ordered you to pull it together and help the senpais, and you did your best. But both times, right after I lost my head, there you were, waiting for me to take out my anger on, just always…”

Tired, frustrated brown eyes swing up to him.

“...Right there.”

Kyoutani’s pretty certain this is the nicest Yahaba’s ever been to him. His ears are burning. He isn’t sure why Yahaba is apologizing for yelling at him, because Kyoutani’s never been mad at Yahaba for yelling at him. He’s even told Yahaba it helped him. But he’s not going to interrupt.

“Oikawa-san’s right, like usual. We’re teammates now. You’re the ace, and I’m your setter and captain. We- I don’t think we could ever be as close as Iwaizumi-san and Oikawa-san, but I can’t keep holding onto these petty grudges. That’s… That’s about as good as I can do right now.”

Yahaba takes a shaky breath. “That… ‘more’ you were talking about will have to come later.”

Kyoutani looks over the boy in front of him again, makes a decision in his head, and stands up. Big doe eyes look up at him in surprise, and Kyoutani extends a hand.

“C’mon. I’ll clean and wrap your hands for you.”

A surprisingly warm, tiny smile sneaks its way onto Yahaba’s face as he takes Kyoutani’s hand. The burning in his ears extends down his neck and up to his cheeks, and Kyoutani’s certain he’s glowing like the sun. 

For the first time, Kyoutani finds himself in contact with Yahaba’s body in a way that isn’t full of violent intentions.

He keeps his grip strong, even when Yahaba’s grip has already started to slacken, if only for the excuse of holding onto his hand for just a little bit longer.

* * *

Hissing, Yahaba starts to snatch his hand away, but Kyoutani just locks his hold on Yahaba’s wrist a cinch tighter and lets the disinfectant do its job. The dried blood’s been washed away already, leaving only split and bruised knuckles behind. Yahaba had seemed surprised at the sheer amount of damage there was. Stupid. Of course it’s going to hurt his hand when he puts his full weight behind the hit like that. Kyoutani’s surprised he didn’t break a knuckle. He did, the first time he hit someone for real.

“Um, so,” Yahaba says, still oddly meek after all the anger and fire that was present in his voice earlier. He’s all somber and sad now, hurt displayed to the world as openly as his wounds, even if he thinks he’s doing a good job hiding it. Kyoutani doesn’t really get the way Yahaba’s emotions work all the time. The way the thoughts in Yahaba’s head string together don’t always click for him, like earlier when Yahaba apologized for yelling at him at the Karasuno game. But at least he can figure out the end result easily enough from simply body language and tone. “I don’t really… understand why you’re helping me.”

Kyoutani grunts in acknowledgement, then realizes the statement was meant as a question and frowns. “You defended me.”

“That’s it?” Yahaba asks.

“That’s it,” Kyoutani agrees.

There are so many words that could be said, so many thoughts that Kyoutani’s privately had, but if it’s simple enough to say it in three words, he might as well say it in three words. There’s a certain skill in being able to craft complicated sentences and weighted sentences, like Oikawa, but there’s a power in words that’s easily enough found in the simpler things. Eloquence in simplicity.

Yahaba’s still frowning in confusion, but he’s not asking anymore questions, so Kyoutani sets back to carefully dabbing at the hand held within his own. He cleans off all the disinfectant and any remaining bits of blood. He’s almost done.

“I just- I don’t get you. One minute you’re irritated with everything in the world, the next you’re almost being- being,” Yahaba huffs and gestures dramatically with his free right hand at Kyoutani’s hold on his left hand, “gentle. You have no reason at all to like me, yet you’re helping me out.”

“It’s like I said,” Kyoutani growls, gritting his teeth, “you defended me. And back then, you made me better. Stop worrying so fuckin’ much.”

“Back then? You mean at the Karasuno game?” Yahaba asks stupidly, like he isn’t a college prep class student and doesn’t get far better grades than Kyoutani.

“Yea, that’s what I just said, idiot,” Kyoutani replies. He picks up the bandages waiting on the other side of Yahaba’s spot on the couch and starts to wrap them around Yahaba’s left hand. “Did you not understand what I said before? You yelling at me helped. Stop fucking apologizing for it or I’ll start to think you wish you hadn’t helped me.”

“You were pretty vague, to be fair,” Yahaba says, all indignant now that he’s being called dumb, huffy and rushed in his excuses. “You just called it ‘more’ or something. Whatever, I won’t mention it again. But if it helped you, then I’m glad to have done it. I’ll stop feeling bad about it, then.”

“Go for it,” Kyoutani says.

“I will,” Yahaba replies. 

Around, and around, and around. Pinning the bandage in place, he lets Yahaba stretch out the hand and feel how stiff the bandage is for a bit before reaching for his right hand, starting to wrap that as well. It’s nice to just be able to hold his hand. Physical contact with Yahaba is just… nice. 

There’s a peaceful silence, for all of thirty seconds before Yahaba breaks it again.

“Are you wearing eyeliner?”

Jesus fucking christ, for a boy with such a pretty mouth, Kyoutani sure hates seeing it moving suddenly. “What kind of stupid question is that? ‘Course.”

“Wow. You’re really good at it. The line’s so thin I’ve never noticed.” Yahaba sounds impressed, which should be cool, except Kyoutani really wishes his makeup skills hadn’t been the first thing to impress Yahaba at all about who Kyoutani is as a person. Why couldn’t the creampuff boy be like most people and just get all excited about how great Kyoutani was at spiking? Just… check out his sick biceps or something, like a normal person. 

“Maybe you just haven’t been fuckin’ lookin’,” Kyoutani snaps back. Keeps winding, sure to be delicate, careful and deliberate in every motion, leaning over Yahaba’s hand. Doesn’t wanna mess this up and have Oikawa breathing down his neck for messing up his precious kouhai’s hands.

There’s a beat of silence that Kyoutani doesn’t expect, the weight of Yahaba’s gaze suddenly heavy and intense across the back of his neck. He jolts upright. They lock eyes, brown versus gold. Except- Yahaba’s are all wrong. They’re wide and full of surprise. 

Kyoutani goes stiff, muscles tight and tense as Yahaba keeps staring at him. He doesn’t know what's happening, but every instinct he has is screaming at him to stay still.

Yahaba leans in then, far into Kyoutani’s personal space, far past the distance Kyoutani would allow anyone else, until Kyoutani can barely breath.

Hair that shines in the light and smells like something floral up close, those beautiful brown eyes, eyelashes tipped in blonde that are so much longer than they look at first glance- pale skin and a splatter of little dots that look like they might become freckles during the summer months- Kyoutani gulps. His mouth is dry, he doesn’t know what to do with his tongue suddenly, why is he thinking about his fucking tongue of all things- and Yahaba’s hand comes up to brush right under Kyoutani’s eye, making him close it reflexively. 

Yahaba’s fingertips are ruffling his eyelashes. 

He forces his eyes open again.

“You’re right,” Yahaba whispers, his breath all too hot and close to Kyoutani’s skin, brushing over his jaw and cheek and lips. His finger settles under Kyoutani’s eye and sweeps along under it, though now he expects the motion and doesn’t blink. A shiver wracks down his spine, sparks firing under his skin where Yahaba’s touching him. He must be glowing again, like Yahaba’s own personal sun, blushing red and hot everywhere Yahaba can see. All Kyoutani can do is watch Yahaba’s face, afraid to even blink in case it makes him move back. 

“Maybe I just haven’t been looking.”

There’s a depth to the words that Kyoutani can’t even begin to fathom or understand, his mind at an absolute standstill as Yahaba slowly draws away, the touch under Kyoutani’s eye lingering until there’s no further excuse for his fingers to stay there.

Yahaba’s right hand is still in his. He has to finish wrapping it. Sure. Just… do that.

Moving entirely on autopilot, Kyoutani goes around and around and around with the bandage roll. Pins it in place. Nods at Yahaba in response to his thanks. Packs up the first aid kit, picks it up, heads for the bathroom to put it away.

His mind starts working again when he’s closing the bathroom door on his way out, and though he knows the moment’s passed to ask the question, it shimmers on the surface of his mind and dangles itself before him like a distant star. Unattainable. Full of promise. The light of it reaching him far too late for him to know if asking the question is still a possibility.

_What exactly is it that you’re seeing?_

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty proud of how the dialogue in this one turned out! Probably not my prettiest prose ever, but still pretty good considering I'm just getting back into it (▰˘◡˘▰) Also was really fun publishing something without having to use html for an hour beforehand to make sure everything is formatted properly!! Thanks for reading, I'd die for you if you left a comment, love y'all!!


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